In the first place, recalling many similar instances under his own observation, Denis opined that the money musthave been hidden up for his guest, long ago, by his great grandmother, in a stocking, and forgotten! Next, that the Prussian Government, having heard of the mare's performances at Punchestown, had bought her for breeding purposes, at such a sum as they considered her marketable value. And, lastly (standing the more stoutly by this theory, for the failure of its predecessors), that the whole amount had been subscribed under a general vote of the Kildare Street Club, in testimony of their admiration for Daisy's bold riding and straightforward conduct as a sportsman!
Leaving him perfectly satisfied with this explanation, Daisy bade his host an affectionate farewell, and started without delay for London, previously telegraphing to his comrade at Kensington certain information and instructions for his guidance. Warped in its transmission by an imaginative clerk in a hurry, we have seen how this message confused and distracted the honest perceptions of its recipient.
That young officer was sitting down to breakfast, with Venus under his chair, while Benjamin, the badger, poked a cautious nose out of his stronghold in the wardrobe, when the hasty retreat of one animal, and formidable growlings of the other, announced a strange step on the stairs. Immediately Daisy rushed into the room, vociferated for Barney to look after his "traps" and pay the cab, seized a hot plate, wagged his head at his host, and began breakfast without further ceremony.
"Seem peckish, young man," observed Bill, contemplating his friend with extreme satisfaction. "Sick as a fool last night, no doubt, and sharp-set this morning in consequence. Go in for a cutlet, my boy. Another kidney, then. That's right. Have a suck of the lemon, and at him again!"
Munching steadily, Daisy repudiated the imputation of sea-sickness, with the scorn of a practised mariner. "It seems to me that I live on that Channel," said he, "like a ship's-steward, Bill, or a horse-marine! Well, I've done with it now, I hope, for some time. How jolly it is to feel straight again! It's like your horse getting up, when he's been on his head, without giving the crowner you deserve. It was touch-and-go this time, old chap. I say, you got my telegram?"
Bill laughed. "I did, indeed!" he answered; "and a nice mull they made. Read it for yourself."
Thus speaking, he tossed across the breakfast-table that singular communication which his unassisted ingenuity had so failed to comprehend.
Daisy perused it with no little astonishment. "The fools!" he exclaimed. "Why, Bill, you must have thought I'd gone mad."
"Wedid," replied Bill gravely. "Stark staring, my boy. We said we alwayshadconsidered you 'a hatter,' but not so bad as this."
"We!" repeated his friend. "What d'ye mean bywe? You didn't go jawing about it in the regiment, Bill?"
"When I say we," answered the other, with something of a blush, "I mean me and Mrs. Lushington."
"What hadsheto do with it?" asked Daisy, pushing his plate away, and lighting a cigar. "Shedidn't send the stuff, I'll take my oath!"
"But she knows who did," said Bill, filling a meerschaum pipe of liberal dimensions, with profound gravity.
Then they smoked in silence for several minutes.
"It's a very rum go," observed Daisy, after a prolonged and thoughtful puff. "I don't know when I've been so completely at fault. Tell me what you've heard, Bill, for youhaveheard something, I'm sure. In the first place, how came you to take counsel with Mrs. Lushington?"
"Because she is up to every move in the game," was the answer. "Because she's the cleverest woman in London, and the nicest. Because I was regularly beat, and could think of nobody else to help me at short notice. The telegram said, 'Do not lose a moment.'"
"And what didshemake of it?" asked Daisy.
"Tumbled to the whole plant in three minutes," answered Bill. "Put the telegram straight—bulls, honey, and all—as easy as wheeling into line. I tell you, we know as much as you do now, andmore. You've got three 'thou,' Daisy, ready-money down, to do what you like with. Isn't that right?"
Daisy nodded assent.
"The Chief's delighted, and I've sent the agent toSharon. Luckily, the little beggar's not so unreasonable as we thought he'd be. That reckons up the telegram, doesn't it?"
Again Daisy nodded, smoking serenely.
"Then there's nothing more for you to bother about," continued his host; "and I'm glad of it. Only, next time, Daisy, you won't pull for an old woman, I fancy, in a winning race."
"Nor a young one either," said his friend. "But you haven't told me now who the money came from."
"Can't you guess? Have you no idea?"
"Not the faintest."
"What should you say to Miss Douglas?"
"Miss Douglas!"
By the tone in which Daisy repeated her name, that young lady was obviously the last person in the world from whom he expected to receive pecuniary assistance.
Though no longer peaceful, his meditations seemed deeper than ever. At length he threw away the end of his cigar with a gesture of impatience and vexation.
"This is a very disagreeable business," said he. "Hang it, Bill, I almost wish the money had never come. I can't send it back, for a thousand's gone already to our kind old major, who promised to settle my book at Tattersall's. I wonder where she got such a sum. By Jove, it's the handsomest thing I ever heard of! What would you do, Bill, if you were in my place?"
"Do," repeated his friend; "I've no doubt what Ishoulddo. I should order Catamount round at once; then I think I'd have a brandy-and-soda; in ten minutes I'd be at Miss Douglas's door, and in fifteen I'd have—what d'ye call it?—proposed to her. Proposed to her, my boy, all according to regulation. I'm not sure how you set about these things. I fancy you go down on your knees; I know you ought to put your arm round their waists; but lots of fellows could coach you for all that part, and even if you did anything that's not in the book, this is a case of emergency, and, in my opinion, you might chance it!"
Having thus delivered himself, the speaker assumed a judicial air, smoking severely.
"In plain English, a woman buys one for three thousand pounds!" said Daisy, laughing rather bitterly. "And only three thousand bid for him. Going! Going!!"
"Gone!!!" added Bill, bringing his fist down on the table with a bang that startled the badger, and elicited an angry bark from Venus. "A deuced good price, too; I only hope I shall fetch half as much when I'm brought to the hammer. Why you ought to be delighted, my good fellow. She's as handsome as paint, and the best horse-woman that ever wore a habit!"
"I don't deny her riding, nor her beauty, nor her merit in every way," said Daisy, somewhat ruefully. "In fact, she's much too good for a fellow like me. But do you mean, seriously, Bill, that I must marry her because she has paid my debts?"
"I do, indeed," answered his friend; "and Mrs. Lushington thinks so too."
Before Daisy's eyes rose the vision of an Irish river glancing in the sunshine, with banks of tender green and ripples of molten gold, and a fishing-rod lying neglected on its margin, while a fair, fond face looked loving and trustful in his own.
There are certain hopes akin to the child's soap-bubble which we cherish insensibly, admiring their airy grace and radiant colouring, almost persuading ourselves of their reality, till we apply to them some practical test—then behold! at a touch, the bubble bursts, the dream vanishes, to leave us only a vague sense of injustice, an uncomfortable consciousness of disappointment and disgust.
"I conclude Mrs. Lushington understands these things, and knows exactly what a fellow ought to do," said Daisy, after another pause that denoted he was in no indiscreet hurry to act on that lady's decision.
"Of course she does!" answered Bill. "She's a regular authority, you know, or I wouldn't have gone to her. You couldn't be in safer hands."
Both young men seemed to look on the whole transaction in the light of a duel, or some such affair of honour, requiring caution no less than courage, and in the conduct of which the opinion of a celebrated practitioner like Mrs. Lushington was invaluable and unimpeachable.
"But if I—if I don't like her well enough," said poor Daisy, looking very uncomfortable. "Hang it, Bill, whenone marries a woman, you know, one's obliged to be always with her. Early breakfast, home to luncheon, family dinner, smoke out of doors, and in by ten o'clock. I shouldn't like it at all; and then perhaps she'd take me to morning visits and croquet parties. Think of that, Bill! Like poor Martingale, whose only holiday is when he gets the belt on, and can't stir out of barracks for four-and-twenty hours. To be sure, Miss Douglas is a good many cuts above Mrs. Martingale!"
"To be sure she is!" echoed his adviser. "And I dare say, after all, Daisy, it is not quite so bad as we think. Wet days and that you'd have to yourself, you know, and she wouldn't want you when she had a headache. Mrs. Martingale often has headaches, and so should I if I liquored up as freely!"
"But supposing," argued Daisy, "I say onlysupposing, Bill, one liked another girl better; oughtn't that to make a difference?"
"I'm afraidnot," replied Bill, shaking his head. "I didn't think of putting the case in that way to Mrs. Lushington, but I don't imagine she'd admit the objection. No, no, my boy, it's no use being shifty about it. You've got to jump, and the longer you look, the less you'll like it! If it was a mere matter of business, I wouldn't say a word, but see how the case stands. There are no receipts, no vouchers; she has kept everything dark, that you might feel under no obligation. Hang it, old fellow, it's a regular debt of honour; and there's no way of paying up, that I can see, but this."
Such an argument was felt to be unanswerable.
"A debt of honour," repeated Daisy. "I suppose it is. Very well; I'll set about it at once. I can't begin to-day though."
"Why not?" asked his friend.
"No time," answered the other, who in many respects was a true Englishman. "I've got lots of things to do. In the first place, I must have my hair cut, of course!"
CHAPTER XXIV
A PERTINENT QUESTION
A letter, without date or signature, written in an upright, clerkly hand, correctly spelt, sufficiently well-expressed, and stamped at the General Post Office! St. Josephs had no clue to his correspondent, and could but read the following production over and over again with feelings of irritation and annoyance that increased at each perusal:—
"You have been grossly ill-treated and deceived. A sense of justice compels the writer of these lines to warn you before it is too late. You are the victim of a conspiracy to plunder and defraud. One cannot bear to see a man of honour robbed by the grossest foul play. General St. Josephs is not asked to believe a bare and unsupported statement. Let him recapitulate certain facts, and judge for himself. He best knows whether he did not lately borrow a large sum of money. He can easily discover if that amount corresponds, to a fraction, with the losses of a young officer celebrated for his horsemanship. Let him ascertain why that person's debts have stood overtill now; also, how and when they have been settled. Will he have courage to ask himself, orsomebodyhe trusts as himself, whence came these funds that have placed his rival in a position to return to England? Will he weigh the answer in the balance of common-sense; or is he so infatuated by a certain dark lady that he can be fooled with his eyes open, in full light of day? There is no time to lose, or this caution would never have been given. If neglected, the General will regret his incredulity as long as he lives. Most women would appreciate his admiration; many would be more than proud of his regard. There is but one, perhaps, in the world who could thus repay it by injury and deceit. He is entreated to act at once on this communication, and to believe that of all his well-wishers it comes from the sincerest and the most reliable."
Everybody affects to despise anonymous letters. No doubt it is a wise maxim that such communications should be put in the fire at once, and ignored as if they did not exist. Nevertheless, on the majority of mankind they inflict unreasonable anxiety and distress. The sting rankles, though the insect be infinitesimal and contemptible; the blow falls none the less severely that it has been delivered in the dark.
On a nature like the General's such an epistle as the above was calculated to produce the utmost amount of impatience and discomfort. To use a familiar expression, itworriedhim beyond measure. Straightforward in all his dealings, he felt utterly at a loss when he came in contactwith mystery or deceit. Nothing could furnish plainer proof of the General's sincere attachment to Miss Douglas than the fortitude with which he confronted certain petty vexations and annoyances inseparable from the love affairs of young and old.
"Ah me! what perils do environ,The man who meddles with cold iron,"
quoth Hudibras, but surely his risk is yet greater, who elects to heat the metal from hilt to point in the furnace of his own affections, and burns his fingers every time he draws the sword, even in self-defence. To St. Josephs who, after a manhood of hardship, excitement, and some military renown, had arrived at a time of life when comfort and repose are more appreciated, and more desirable every day, nothing could have been so distasteful as the character he now chose to enact, but forhercharms, who had cast the part for him, and with whom, by dint of perseverance and fidelity, he hoped to play out the play.
Though he often sighed to remember how heavily he was weighted with his extra burden of years, he never dreamed of retiring from the contest, nor relaxed for one moment in his efforts to attain the goal.
Twenty times was he on the point of destroying a letter that so annoyed him, and twenty times he checked himself, with the reflection, that even the treacherous weapon might be wrested from the enemy, and turned to his own advantage by sincerity and truth. After much cogitation,he ordered his horse, dressed himself carefully, and rode to Miss Douglas's door.
That lady was at home. Luncheon, coming out of the dining-room untouched, met him as he crossed the hall, and the tones of her pianoforte rang in his ears, while he went upstairs. When the door opened she rose from the instrument and turned to greet him with a pale face, showing traces of recent tears.
All his self-command vanished at these tokens of her distress.
"You've been crying, my darling," said he, and taking her hand in both his own, he pressed it fondly to his lips.
It was not a bad beginning. Hitherto he had always been so formal, so respectful, so unlike a lover; now, when he saw she was unhappy, the man's real nature broke out, and she liked him none the worse.
Withdrawing her hand, but looking very kindly, and speaking in a softer tone than usual, she bade him take no notice of her agitation.
"I'm nervous," said she. "I often am. You men can't understand these things, but it's better than being cross at any rate."
"Cross!" he repeated. "Be as cross and as nervous as you like, only makemethe prop when you require support, and the scapegoat when you want to scold."
"You're too good," said she, her dark eyes filling again, whereat he placed himself very close and took her hand once more. "Far too good forme! I've told you so ahundred times. General, shall I confess why I was—was making such a fool of myself, and what I was thinking of when you came in?"
"If it's painful toyou, I'd rather not hear it," was his answer. "I want to be associated with the sunshine of your life, Blanche, not its shade."
She shook her head.
"Whoever takes that part inmylife," she replied, "must remain a good deal in the dark. That's what I was coming to. General, it is time you and I should understand each other. I feel I could tellyouthings I would not breathe to any other living being. You're so safe, so honourable, so punctiliously, soridiculouslyhonourable, and Ilikeyou for it."
He looked grateful.
"I want you to like me," said he. "Better and better every day. I'll try to deserve it."
"They say time works wonders," she answered wistfully, "and I feel I shall. IknowI shall. But there are some things Imusttell you now, while I have the courage. Mind, I am prepared to take all consequences. I have deceived you, General. Deceived you in a way you could never imagine nor forgive."
"So people seem to think," he observed coolly, producing, at the same time, the anonymous letter from his pocket. "I should not have troubled you with such trash, but as you have chosen to make me your father-confessor, perhaps I ought to say yourgrand-father confessor, thismorning, you may as well look through it, before we put that precious production in the fire."
He walked to the window, so as not to see her face while she read it, nor was this little act of delicacy and forbearance lost on such a woman as Blanche Douglas.
Her temper, nevertheless, became thoroughly roused before she got to the end of the letter, causing her to place herself once more in the position of an adversary. Her eyes shone, her brows lowered, and her words came in the tight concentrated accents of bitter anger while she bade him turn round, and look her in the face.
"This has only anticipated me," said she, pale and quivering. "I stand here, arraigned like any prisoner in the dock, but with no excuses to offer, no defence to make. It is a fine position, truly; but having been fool enough to accept it, I do not mean to shrink from its disgrace. Ask me what questions you will, I am not afraid to answer them."
"Honestly?" said he, "without quibbles or after-thought, and once for all?"
She looked very stern and haughty.
"I am not in the habit of shuffling," she replied. "I never yet feared results from word or action of mine. And what I say, you may depend upon it, I mean."
On the General's face came an expression of confidence and resolution she had never noticed before. Meeting his regard firmly, it occurred to her that so he must have looked when he rode through that Sepoy column, andcharged those Russian guns. He was a gallant fellow, no doubt, bold and kind-hearted too.
If he had only been twenty years younger, or even ten!
He spoke rather lower than usual; but every syllable rang clear and true, while his eyes looked frankly and fearlessly into her own.
"Then answer my question once for all. Blanche, will you be my wife? Without farther hesitation or delay?"
"Let me explain first."
"I ask for no explanation, and will listen to none. Suppose me to repose implicit confidence in the vague accusations of an anonymous slander. Suppose me to believe you false and fickle, a shameless coquette, and myself an infatuated old fool. Suppose anything and everything you please; but first answer the question I ask you from the bottom of my heart, with this anonymous statement, false or true, I care not a jot which, in my hand."
He held it as if about to tear it across and fling it in the grate. She laid a gentle touch on his arm and whispered softly—
"Don't destroy it till I've answered your question. Yes. There is nobody like you in the world!"
We need not stop to repeat a proverb touching the irreverent persistency of Folly in travelling hand-in-hand with Age; and of what extravagances the General might have been guilty, in his exceeding joy, it is impossible to guess, had she not stopped him at the outset.
"Sit down there," she said, pointing to a corner of thesofa, while establishing herself in an armchair on the other side of the fire-place. "Now that you have had your say, perhaps you will let me havemine! Hush! I know what you mean. I take all that for granted. Stay where you are, hold your tongue, and listen to me."
"The first duty of a soldier is obedience," he answered in great glee. "I'll be as steady as I can."
"It is myrightnow to explain," she continued gravely. "Believe me. I most fully appreciate; I never can forget. Whatever happened I nevercouldforget the confidence you have shown in me to-day. Depend upon it, when you trust people so unreservedly, you make itimpossiblefor them to deceive. I have always honoured and admired you. During the last hour I have learned to—to—well—to think you deserve more than honour and esteem. Any woman might be proud and happy—yes—happy to belong to you. But now, if I am to be your wife—don't interrupt. Well,asI am to be your wife, you must let me tell you everything—everything—or I recall my promise."
"Don't do that," he answered playfully. "But mind, I'm quite satisfied with you as you are, and ask to knownothing."
She hesitated, and the colour came to her brow while she completed her confession. "You—you lent me some money, you know;gaveit me, I ought to say, for I'm quite sure you never expected to see it back again. It was a good deal. Don't contradict. Itwasa good deal, and I wonder how I could have the face to ask for it. But Ididn't want it for myself. It was to save from utter ruin a very old and dear friend."
"I know all about it," said he cheerfully. "At least, I can guess. Very glad it should be so well employed. But all that wasyourbusiness, not mine."
"And you never even asked who got it!" she continued, while again there gathered a mist to veil her large dark eyes.
"My dear Blanche," he answered, "I was only too happy to be of service to you. Surely it was your own, to employ as you liked. I don't want to know any more about it, even now."
"But youmustknow," she urged. "I've been going to tell you ever so often, but something always interrupted us; and once, when I had almost got it out, the words seemed to die away on my lips. Listen. You know I'm not very young."
He bowed in silence. The reflection naturally presented itself that ifshewas not very young,hemust be very old.
Miss Douglas proceeded, with her eyes fixed on her listener, as if she was looking at something a long way off.
"Of course I've seen and known lots of people in my life, and had some great friends—I meanrealfriends—that I would have made any sacrifice to serve. Amongst these was Mr. Walters. I used to call him Daisy. General, I—I liked him better than all the rest. Better than anybody in the world—"
"And now?" asked the General anxiously, but carrying a bold front notwithstanding.
"Now, I know I was mistaken," she replied. "Though that's not the question. Well, after that horrid race—when my beautiful mare ought to have won, anddidn't—I knew Daisy—Mr. Walters, I mean—had lost more than he could afford to pay—in plain English, he was ruined; and worse, wouldn't be able to show, unless somebody came to the rescue. I hadn't got the money myself. Not a hundredth part of it! So I askedyou, and—and—sent it all tohim. Now you know the whole business."
"I knew it long ago," said he gently. "At least, I might have known it, had I ever allowed the subject to enter my head. Doesheknow it too, do you think, Blanche?"
"Good heavens! No!" she exclaimed. "Thatwouldbe a complication. You don't think there's a chance of it! I took every care—every precaution. WhatshouldI do? General, what would you advise?"
He smiled to mark how she was beginning to depend on him, drawing a good augury from this alteration in her character, and would no doubt have replied in exceedingly affectionate terms, but that he was interrupted by the opening of the drawing-room door, and entrance of a servant, who, in a matter-of-fact voice, announced a visitor—"Mr. Walters!"
Blanche turned white to her lips, and muttered rapidly, "Won't you stay, General?Do!"
But the General had already possessed himself of his hat, and, with an air of good-humoured confidence, that she felt did honour both to herself and him, took a courteous leave of his hostess, and gave a hearty greeting to the newcomer as they passed each other on the threshold.
"I think I've won the battle," muttered the old soldier, mounting his horse briskly in the street; "though I've left the enemy in possession of the ground!"
CHAPTER XXV
A SATISFACTORY ANSWER
Daisy, with his hair cut exceedingly short, as denoting that he was on the eve of some great crisis in life, entered the apartment in the sheepish manner of a visitor who is not quite sure about his reception. Though usually of cheerful and confident bearing, denoting no want of a certain self-assertion, which the present generation call "cheek," all his audacity seemed to have deserted him, and he planted himself in the centre of the carpet, with his hat in his hand like the poor, spiritless bridegroom at Netherby, who stood "dangling his bonnet and plume" while his affianced and her bridesmaids were making eyes at young Lochinvar.
Miss Douglas, too, required a breathing-space to restore her self-command. When they had shaken hands, it was at least a minute before either could find anything to say.
The absurdity of the situation struck them both, but the lady was the first to recover her presence of mind; and, with a laugh not the least genuine, welcomed him back to England, demanding the latest news from Paddy-land.
"You've been at Cormac's-town, of course," said she. "You can tell us all about dear Lady Mary, and your pretty friend Norah. I hope she asked to be remembered tome."
He blushed up to his eyes, turning his hat in his hands, as if he would fain creep into it bodily and hide himself from notice in the crown.
She saw her advantage, and gained courage every minute, so as to stifle and keep down the gnawing pain that made her so sick at heart.
"I wonder Norah trusts you in London," she continued, with another of those forced smiles. "I suppose you're only on short leave, as you call it, and mean to go back directly. Will you have the black mare to ride while you are in town? I've taken great care of her, and she's looking beautiful!"
To her own ear, if not to his, there was a catch in her breath while she spoke the last words, that warned her she would need all her self-command before the play was played out.
He thanked her kindly enough, while he declined the offer; but his tone was so grave, so sorrowful, that she could keep up the affectation of levity no longer.
"What is it?" she asked, in an altered voice. "Daisy!—Mr. Walters! What is the matter? Are you offended? I was only joking about Norah."
"Offended!" he repeated. "How could I ever be offended withyou? But I didn't come here to talk aboutMiss Macormac, nor even Satanella, except in so far as the mare is connected with your generosity and kindness."
"What do you mean?" she asked, in considerable trepidation. "Youwere the generous one, for you gave me the best hunter in your stable, without being asked."
"As if you had not bought her over and over again!" he exclaimed, finding voice and words and courage now that he was approaching the important topic. "Miss Douglas, it's no use denying your good deeds, nor pretending to ignore their magnificence. It was only yesterday I learned the real name of myunknown friend! I tell you that money of yours saved me from utter ruin—worse than ruin, from such disgrace as if I had committed a felony, and been sent to prison!"
"I'm sure you look as if you had just come out of one," she interposed, "with that cropped head. Why do you let them cut your hair so short? It makes you hideous!"
"Never mind my cropped head," he continued, somewhat baffled by the interruption. "I hurried here at once, to thank you with all my heart, as the best friend I ever had in the world."
"Well, you've done it," said she. "That's quite enough. Now let us talk of something else."
"But Ihaven'tdone it," protested Daisy, gathering, from the obstacles in his way, a certain inclination to his task or at least a determination to go through with it. "I haven't said half what I've got to say, nor a quarter of what I feel. You have shown that you consider me a nearand dear friend. You have given me the plainest possible proof of your confidence and esteem. All this instigates me—or rather induces me, or, shall I say, encourages me—to hope, or perhaps persuade myself of some probability. In short, Miss Douglas—can't you help a fellow out with what he's got to say?"
Floundering about in search of the right expressions, she would have liked him to go on for an hour. It was delightful to be even on the brink of that paradise from which she must presently exclude herself for ever with her own hands, and she forbore to interrupt him till he came to a dead stop for want of words.
"Nonsense!" she said. "Any friend would have done as much who had the power. It's nothing to make a fuss about. I'm glad you're out of the scrape, and there's an end to it."
"You were always generous," he exclaimed. "You ought to have been a man; I've said so a hundred times—only it's lucky you'renot, or I couldn't ask you a question that I don't know how to put in the right form."
She turned pale as death. It was come, then, at last—that moment to which she had once looked forward as a glimpse of happiness too exquisite for mortal senses. Here was the enchanted cup pressed to her very lip, and she must not taste it—must even withdraw her eyes from the insidious drink. And yet even now she felt a certain sense of disappointment in her empty triumph, a vague misgiving that the proffered draught was flatter than it shouldbe, as if the bottle had been already opened to slake another's thirst.
"Better not ask," she said, "if the words don't come naturally,—if the answer is sure to beno."
In his intense relief he never marked the piteous tone of her voice, nor the tremble of agony passing over her face, like the flicker of a fire on a marble bust, to leave its features more fixed and rigid than before.
Even in her keen suffering she wished to sparehim. Already she was beginning to long for the dull insensibility that must succeed this hour of mental conflict, as bodily numbness is the merciful result of pain. She dreaded the possibility that his disappointment should be anything like her own, and would fain have modified the blow she had no choice but to inflict.
Daisy, however, with good reason no doubt, was resolved to rush on his fate the more obstinately, as it seemed, because of the endeavours to spare both him and herself.
"I am a plain-spoken fellow," said he, "and—and—tolerably straightforward, as times go. I'm not much used to this kind of thing—at least, I've never regularly asked such a question before. You mustn't be offended, Miss Douglas, if I don't go the right way to work. But—but—it seems so odd that you should have come in and paid my debts for me! Don't you think I ought—or don't you thinkyouought—in short, I've come here on purpose to ask you to marry me. I'm not half good enough, I know, and lots of fellows would make you better husbands, I'mafraid. But, really now—without joking—won't you try?"
He had got into the spirit of the thing, and went on more swimmingly than he could have hoped. There was almost a ring of truth in his appeal, for Daisy's was a temperament that flung itself keenly into the excitement of the moment, gathering ardour from the very sense of pursuit. As he said himself, "He never could help riding, if he got a start."
And Miss Douglas shook in every limb while she listened with a wan, weary face and white lips, parted in a rigid smile. It was not that she was unaccustomed to solicitations of a like nature; whatever might be her previous experience, scarcely an hour had passed since she sustained a similar attack—and surely to accept an offer of marriage ought to be more subversive of the nervous system than to refuse; yet she could hardly have betrayed deeper emotions had she been trembling in the balance between life and death.
That was a brave heart of hers, or it must have failed to keep its own rebellion down so firmly, and gather strength to answer in a calm, collected voice—
"There are some things it is better not to think about, for they can never be, and this is one of them."
How little she knew what was passing in his mind! How little she suspected thathersentence washisreprieve! And yet his self-love was galled. He had made a narrow escape, and was thankful, no doubt, but felt somewhatdisappointed, too, that his danger had not been greater still.
"Do you mean it?" said he. "Well, you'll forgive my presumption, and—and—you won't forget I asked you."
"Forget!——"
It was all she said; but a man must have been both blind and deaf not to have marked the tone in which those syllables were uttered, the look which accompanied them. Daisy brandished his hat, thinking it high time to go, lest his sentence should be commuted, and his doom revoked.
She put her hand to her throat, as if she must choke; but mastered her feelings with an effort, forcing herself to speak calmly and distinctly now, on a subject that must never be approached again.
"Do not think I undervalue your offer," she said, gathering fortitude with every word; "do not think me hard, or changeable, or unfeeling. If you must not make me happy, at least you have made me very proud; and if everything had turned out differently, I do hope I might have proved worthy to be your wife. You're not angry with me, are you? And you won't hate me because it's impossible?"
"Not the least!" exclaimed Daisy, eagerly. "Don't think it for a moment! Please not to make yourself unhappy aboutme."
"Iamworthy to be your friend," she continued saddened, and it may be a little vexed, by this remarkable exhibition of self-denial; "andasa friend I feel I oweyou some explanation, beyond a bare 'No, I won't.' It ought rather to be 'No, Ican't;' because—because, to tell you the honest truth, I have promised somebody else!"
"I wish you joy with all my heart!" he exclaimed, gaily, and not the least like an unsuccessful suitor. "I hope you'll be as happy as the day is long! When is it to be? You'll send me an invitation to the wedding, won't you?"
Her heart was very sore. He did not even ask the name of his fortunate rival, and he could hardly have looked more pleased, she thought, if he had been going to marry her himself.
"I don't know about that," she answered, shaking her head sadly. "At any rate, I shall not see you again for a long time. Good-bye, Daisy," and she held out a cold hand that trembled very much.
"Good-bye," said he, pressing it cordially. "I shall never forget your kindness. Good-bye."
Then the door shut, and he was gone.
Blanche Douglas sank into a sofa, and sat there looking at the opposite wall, without moving hand or foot, till the long summer's day waned into darkness and her servant came with lights. She neither wept, nor moaned, nor muttered broken sentences, but remained perfectly motionless, like a statue, and in all those hours she asked herself but one question—"Do I love this man? and, if so, how can I ever bear to marry the other?"
CHAPTER XXVI
AFTERNOON TEA
"I wish you'd come, Daisy. You've no idea what it is, facing all those swells by oneself!"
"I havenotthe cheek," was Daisy's reply. "They would chaff one so awfully, if they knew. No, Bill, I'll see you through anything but that."
"Then I must show the best front I can without a support," said the other ruefully. "Why can't she let me off these tea-fights? They're cruelly slow. I don't see the good of them."
"Shedoes," replied Daisy. "Not a woman in London knows what she is about better than Mrs. Lushington."
"How d'ye mean?" asked his less worldly-minded friend.
"Why, you see," explained Daisy, "one great advantage of living in this wicked town is, that you've no duty towards your neighbour. People don't care two straws what you do, or how you do it, so long as you keep your own line, without crossing theirs. They'll give you thebest of everything, and ask for no return, if only you'll pretend to be glad to see them when you meet, and not forget them when you go away. That's the secret of morning visits, card-leaving, wedding-presents, and the whole of the sham. Now Mrs. Lushington goes everywhere, and never has a ball, nor a drum, nor even a large dinner-party of her own, but she says to her friends, 'I love you dearly, I can't exist without you. Come and see me every Wednesday, except the Derby Day, all the London season through, from five to sevenP.M.I'll swear to be at home, and I'll give you a cup of tea!' So, for nine pen'orth of milk, and some hot water, she repays the hospitalities of a nation. She's pleased, the world is gratified, and nobody's bored butyou. It's all humbug, that's the truth, and I'm very glad I'm so soon to be out of it!"
"But you won't leave the Regiment?" said his brother officer kindly.
"Not if I know it!" was the hearty response. "Norah likes soldiering, and old Macormac doesn't care what we do, if we only visithimin the hunting season. Besides, my uncle put that in the conditions when he 'parted,' which he did freely enough, I am bound to admit, considering all things."
"You've not been long about it," observed Soldier Bill in a tone of admiration. "It's little more than a month since you pulled through after that 'facer' at Punchestown; and now, here you are booked to one lady, afterproposing to another, provided with settlements,trousseau, bridesmaids, and very likely a bishop to marry you. Hang it, Daisy, I've got an unclesmotheredin lawn; I'll give him the straight tip, and ask him to tie you up fast."
"You'll have to leave the Park at once," was Daisy's reply, "or you'll be returned absent when the parade is formed. You know, Bill, youdaren'tbe late, for your life."
The two young men were by this time at Albert Gate, having spent a pleasant half-hour together on a couple of penny chairs, while the strange medley passed before them that throngs Hyde Park on every summer's afternoon. Daisy was far happier than he either hoped or deserved. After Satanella's refusal, he had felt at liberty to follow the dictates of his own heart, and lost no time in prosecuting his suit with Norah Macormac. The objections that might have arisen from want of means were anticipated by his uncle's unlooked-for liberality, and he was to be married as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made, though, in consideration of his late doings, the engagement was at present to be kept a profound secret.
Notwithstanding some worldly wisdom, Daisy could believe that such secrets divided amongst half-a-dozen people, would not become the property of half-a-hundred.
In mood like his, a man requires no companion but his own thoughts. We will rather accompany Soldier Bill, as he picks his way into Belgravia, stepping daintily over the muddy crossings, cursing the water-carts, and trying topreserve the polish of his boots, up to Mrs. Lushington's door.
Yet into those shining boots his heart seemed almost sinking, when he marked a long line of carriages in the streets, a crowd of footmen on the steps and pavement. No man alive had better nerve than Bill, to ride, or fight, or swim, or face any physical danger; but his hands turned cold, and his face hot, when about to confront strange ladies, either singly or in masses; and for him, the rustling of muslin was as the shaking of a standard to the inexperienced charger, a signal of unknown danger, a flutter of terror and dismay.
Nevertheless, he mastered his weakness, following his own name resolutely upstairs, in a white heat, no doubt, yet supported by the calmness of despair. Fortunately, he found his hostess at her drawing-room door. The favourable greeting she accorded him would have reassured the most diffident of men.
"You're a good boy," she whispered, with a squeeze of his hand. "I was almost afraid you wouldn't come. Stay near the door, while I do the civil to the arch-duchess. I'll be back directly. I've got something very particular to ask you."
So, while Mrs. Lushington did homage (in French) to the arch-duchess, who was old, fat, good-humoured, and very sleepy, Bill took up a position from which he could pass the inmates of the apartment in review. Observing his welcome by their hostess, and knowingwho he was,two or three magnificent ladies thought it not derogatory to afford him a gracious bow; and as they forbore to engage him in discourse, a visitation of which Bill had fearful misgivings, he soon felt sufficiently at ease to inspect unconcernedly, and in detail, the several individuals who constituted the crush.
It was a regular London gathering, in the full-tide of the season, consisting of the best-dressed, best-looking, and idlest people in town. There seemed an excess of ladies, as usual; but who would complain of a summer market that it was over stocked with flowers? While of the uglier sex, the specimens were either very young or very mature. There was scarcely a man to be seen between thirty and forty, but a glut of young gentlemen, some too much and some too little at their ease, with a liberal sprinkling of ancient dandies, irreproachable in manners, and worthier members of society, we may be permitted to hope, than society believed. A few notabilities were thrown in, of course: the arch-duchess aforesaid; a missionary, who had been tortured by the Chinese, dark, sallow, and of a physiognomy that went far to extenuate the cruelty of the Celestials; a lady who had spent two years at Thebes, and, perhaps for that reason, dressed almost as low as the Egyptian Sphinx; a statesman out of office; a celebrated preacher at issue with his bishop; a foreign minister; a London banker; and a man everybody knew, who wrote books nobody read. Besides these, there was the usual complement of ladies who gave, and ladies who went to,balls; married women addicted to flirting; single ladies not averse to it; stout mammas in gorgeous apparel; tall girls with baby faces promising future beauty; a powdered footman winding, like an eel, through the throng; Frank Lushington himself, looking at his watch to see how soon it would be over; and Pretty Bessie Gordon, fresh and smiling, superintending the tea.
All this Bill took in, wondering. It seemed such a strange way of spending a bright summer's afternoon, in weather that had come on purpose for cricket, boating, yachting, all sorts of out-of-door pursuits. Putting himself beside the question, for he felt as much on duty as if he had the belt on in a barrack-yard, it puzzled him to discover the spell that brought all these people together, in a hot room, at six o'clock in the day. Was it sheer idleness, or the love of talking, or only the follow-my-leader instinct of pigs and sheep? Catching sight of General St. Josephs and Miss Douglas conversing apart in a corner, he determined that it must be a motive stronger than any of these, and looking down on her broad deep shoulders, marvelled how such motive might affect his next neighbour, a lady of sixty years, weighing some sixteen stone.
It is fair to suppose, therefore, that Bill was as yet himself untouched. His intimacy with Mrs. Lushington, while sharpening his wits and polishing his manners, served, no doubt, to dispel those illusions of romance that all young men are prone to cherish, more or less; and Soldier Bill, with his fresh cheeks and simple heart, believed he wasbecoming a thorough philosopher, an experienced man-of-the-world, rating human weaknesses at their real value, and walking about the battle of life sheathed in armour-of-proof. Honest Bill! How little he dreamt that his immunity was only a question of time. The hour had not yet come—nor the woman.
Far different was St. Josephs. If ever man exulted in bondage and seemed proud to rattle his chains, that man was the captive General. He never missed an opportunity of attending his conqueror: riding in the Park—"walking the Zoo"—waiting about at balls, drums, crush-rooms, and play-houses,—he never left her side.
Miss Douglas, loathing her own ingratitude, was weary of her life. Even Bill could not help remarking the pale cheeks, the heavy eyes, the dull lassitude of gait and bearing, that denoted the feverish unrest of one who is sick at heart.
He trod on a chaperone's skirt, and omitted to beg pardon; he stumbled against his uncle, the bishop, and forgot to ask after his aunt. So taken up was he with the faded looks of Miss Douglas, that he neither remembered where he was, nor why he came, and only recovered consciousness with the rustle of Mrs. Lushington's dress and her pleasant voice in his ear.
"Give me your arm," said she, pushing on through her guests, with many winning smiles, "and take me into the little room for some tea."
Though a short distance, it was a long passage. Shehad something pleasant to say to everybody, as she threaded the crowd; but it could be no difficult task for so experienced a campaigner, on her own ground, to take up any position she required. And Bill found himself established at last by her side, in a corner, where they were neither overlooked nor overheard.
"Now I want to know if it's true?" said she, dashing into the subject at once. "Youcan tell, if anybody can, and I'm sure you have no secrets fromme."
"Ifwhat'strue?" asked Bill, gulping tea that made him hotter than ever.
"Don't be stupid!" was her reply. "Why, about Daisy of course. Is he going to marry that Irish girl? I want to find out at once."
"Well, it's no use denying it," stammered Bill, somewhat unwillingly. "But it's a dead secret, Mrs. Lushington, and of course it goes no farther."
"Oh, of course!" she repeated. "Don't you know how safe I am? But you're quite sure of it? You have it from himself?"
"I've got to be his best man," returned Bill, by no means triumphantly. "You'll coach me up a little, won't you, before the day? I haven't an idea what to do."
She laughed merrily.
"Make love to the bridesmaids, of course," she answered. "Irish, no doubt, every one of them. I'm not quite sure I shall give you leave."
"I can't get out of it!" exclaimed Bill. "He's such a 'pal,' you know, and a brother-officer, and all."
She was amused at his simplicity.
"I don't want you to get out of it," she answered, still laughing. "I can't tell you what sort of a best man you'll make, but you're not half a bad boy. You deserve something for coming to-day. Dine with us to-morrow—nobody but the Gordon girls and a stray man. I must go and see the great lady off. That's the worst of royalty. Good-bye," and she sailed away, leaving Bill somewhat disconcerted by misgivings that he had been guilty of a breach of trust.
The party was thinning visibly upstairs, while people transferred themselves with one accord to the hall and staircase, many appearing to consider this the pleasantest part of the entertainment. Mrs. Lushington had scarcely yet found time to speak three words to Blanche Douglas, but she caught her dear friend now, on the eve of departure, and held her fast. The General had gone to look for his lady-love's carriage. They were alone in Mr. Lushington's snuggery, converted (though not innocent of tobacco-smoke) into a cloak-room for the occasion.
"So good of you to come, dear Blanche, and to bringhim," (with a meaning smile). "I waited to pounce on youhere. I've gotsucha piece of news for you!"
Miss Douglas looked as if nothing above, upon, or under the earth could afford her the slightest interest, but she was obliged to profess a polite curiosity.
"Whodoyou think is going to be married? Immediately! next week, I believe. Who but our friend Daisy!"
The shot told. Though Miss Douglas received it with the self-command of a practised duellist, so keen an observer as her friend did not fail to mark a quiver of the eye-lids, a tightening of the lips, and a grey hue creeping gradually over the whole face.
"Our fickle friend Daisy, of all people in the world!" continued Mrs. Lushington. "It only shows how we poor women can be deceived. I sometimes fancied he admiredme, and I never doubted but he cared foryou, whereas he has gone and fallen a victim to that wild Irish girl of Lady Mary Macormac's—the pretty one—that was such a friend of yours."
"I always thought he admired her," answered Miss Douglas in a very feeble voice. "I ought to write and wish Norah joy. Are you quite sure it's true?"
"Quite!" was the reply. "My authority is his own best man."
Fortunately the General appeared at this juncture, with tidings of the carriage, while through a vista of footmen might be seen at the open door a brougham-horse on his hind legs, impatient of delay.
"Good-bye, dear Blanche! You look so tired. I hope you haven't done too much."
"Good-bye, dear Clara! I've had such a pleasant afternoon."
Putting her into the carriage, the General's kind heart melted within him. She looked so pale and worn. She clung so confidingly, so dejectedly to his arm. She pressed his hand so affectionately when he bade her good-bye, and seemed so loth to let it go that, but for the eyes of all England, which every man believes are fixed on himself alone, he would have sprung in too, and driven off with her then and there.
But he consoled himself with the certainty of seeing her next day. That comfort accompanied him to his bachelor lodgings, where he dressed, and lasted all through a regimental dinner at the London Tavern.
While a distinguished leader proposed his health, alluding in flattering terms to the services he had rendered, and the dangers he had faced, General St. Josephs was thinking far less of his short soldier-like reply than of the pale face and the dark eyes that would so surely greet him on the morrow; of the future about to open before him at last, that should make amends for a life of war and turmoil, with its gentle solace of love, and confidence, and repose.
CHAPTER XXVII
A HARD MORSEL
Like the feasts of Apicius, that dinner at the London Tavern was protracted to an unconscionable length. Its dishes were rich, various, and indigestible, nothing being servedau natureland without "garnish" but the brave simplicity of the guests.
"Wines too there were, that would have slain young Ammon,"
and old comrades seldom part under such conditions without the consumption of much tobacco in the small hours. Nevertheless, St. Josephs rose next morning fresh and hopeful as a boy. He ordered his horse for an early canter in the Park, and shared the Row with divers young ladies of tender years but dauntless courage, who crammed their ponies along at a pace that caused manes, and tails, and golden hair to float horizontal on the breeze, defiant even of that mounted inspector, whose heart though professionally intolerant of "furious riding," softened to apigmy with snub nose and rosy cheeks, on a tiny quadruped as round, as fat, and as saucy-looking as itself.
St. Josephs felt in charity with all mankind, and returned to breakfast so light of heart that he ought to have known, under the invariable law of compensation, some great misfortune was in store.
He had little appetite; happiness, like sorrow, when excessive, never wants to eat; but he dressed himself again with the utmost care, and after exhausting every expedient to while away the dragging hours, started at half-past eleven for the abode of his ladye-love.
Do what he would, it was scarcely twelve when he arrived at her door, where his summons remained so long unanswered, that he had leisure to speculate on the possibility of Miss Douglas being indisposed and not yet awake. So he rang next time stealthily, and, as it were, under protest, but in vain.
The General then applied himself to the area bell. "They'll come directly, now," he argued; "they'll think it's the beer!" And sure enough the street-door was quickly unfastened, with more turning of keys, clanking of chains, and withdrawal of bolts than is usual during the middle of the season, in the middle of the day.
A very grimy old woman met him on the threshold, and peering suspiciously out of her keen, deep-set eyes, demanded his business in a hoarse voice, suggestive of gin.
"Miss Douglas b'aint here," was the startling answer tohis inquiries. "She be gone away for good. Hoff this morning, I shouldn't wonder, afore you was out of bed."
"Gone!" he gasped. "This morning! Did she leave no message?"
"None that I knows of. The servants didn't say nothink about it; leastways, not tome."
"But she's coming back?"
"Not likely! The maiddidsuppose as they was a-going for good and all. It's no business of mine. I'm not Miss Douglas's servant. I'm a-taking care of the 'ouse for the landlord, I am. It's time I was a-tidying of it up now."
With this broad hint, she proceeded to shut the door in his face, when the General, recovering his presence of mind, made use of the only argument his experience had taught him was universal and conclusive.
Her frown relaxed with the touch of money on her palm. "You're a gentleman, you are," she observed approvingly. "Won't ye step in, sir? It's bad talking with the door in your 'and."
He complied, and sat down on one of the bare hall-chairs, feeling as he had felt once before, when badly hit, in the Punjaub.
She went on with her dusting, talking all the time. "You see they sent round for me first thing in the morning; and I says to Mrs. Jones—that's my landlady, sir,"—(dropping a curtsey), "'Mrs. Jones,' says I, 'whatever can they be up to,' says I, 'making such an early flitting?' says I—"
"But do you mean they've left no letter?" he interrupted, starting from his seat; "no directions—no address? Are all the servants gone? Has Miss Douglas taken much luggage with her? Did she go away in a cab? Oh, woman! woman! tell me all you know! It's a matter of life and death!"
She looked at him askance, privately opining that, early as it was, the gentleman had been drinking, and sympathising with him none the less for that impression.
"They're off," said she stubbornly; "and they've took everythink along with them—bags and boxes, and what not. There was a man round after the keys—not half an hour gone. I should say as they wasn't coming back, none of 'em, no more."
This redundancy of negatives forcibly expressed her hopelessness of their return, and the General's good sense told him it was time wasted to cross-question his informant any further. Summoning his energies, he reflected that the post-office would be the best place whereat to prosecute inquiries, so he bade the old woman farewell, with all the fortitude he could muster, leaving her much impressed by his manners, bearing, and profuse liberality.
At the post-office, however (an Italian warehouse round the corner), they knew nothing. The General, at his wits' end, bethought him of those livery-stables where Satanella kept her namesake, the redoubtable black mare.
Here his plight excited the utmost interest and commiseration. "Certainly. The General should have all the assistance in their power. Of course, the lady had forgotten to leave her address, no doubt. Ladieswascareless, sometimes, in such matters. Abeautiful'orse-woman," the livery-stable keeper understood, "an' kep' two remarkably clever ones for her own riding. Had an idea they went away this very morning. Might be mistaken. John could tell. John was the head-ostler. It was John's business to know." So a bell rang, and John, in a long-sleeved waistcoat, sleeking a close-cropped head, appeared forthwith.
"Black mare and chestnut 'oss," said John decidedly. "Gone this morning; groom took with him saddles, clothing, and everything. Paid up to the end of their week. Looked like travelling—had their knee-caps on. Groom a close chap; wouldn't say where. Wish he (John) could find out. Left a setting-muzzle behind, and would like to send it after him."
There seemed nothing to be done here, and the General was fain to retrace his steps, hurt, anxious, angry, and more puzzled when he reached home than he had ever been in his life.
For an hour or two, the whole thing seemed so impossible, and the absurdity of the situation struck him as so ridiculous, that he sat idly in his chair to wait for tidings. In this nineteenth century, he told himself, people could not disappear from the surface of society, and leave no sign. Rather, like the sea-bird diving in the waves, if they godown in one place, they must come up in another. There were no kidnappings now, no sendings off to the Plantations, no forcible abductions of ladies young or old. Then his heart turned sick, and his blood ran cold, while he recalled more than one instance in his own experience, where individuals had suddenly vanished from their homes and never been heard of again.
Stung to action by such thoughts, he collected his ideas to organise a comprehensive system of pursuit, that should embrace enquiries at all the railway-stations, cab-stands, and turnpikes in and about the metropolis, with the assistance of Scotland Yard in the background. Then he remembered how an old brother-officer had told him, only the other day, of a similar search made by himself, and attended with success. So he resolved to consult that comrade without delay. It was now two o'clock. He would find him eating luncheon at his club. In five minutes, the General was in a hansom cab, and in less than ten, leaped out on the steps of that military resort.
Had he gone there an hour ago, it would have spared him a good deal of mental agitation, though perhaps any amount of anxiety would have been preferable to the dull, sickening resignation which succeeded a blow that could no longer be modified, parried, nor escaped. In after-times, the General looked back to those ten minutes in the hansom cab as the close of an era in his life. Henceforth, every object in nature seemed to have lost something of its colouring, and the sun never shone so bright again.
In the hall an obsequious porter handed him a letter. He staggered when he recognised the familiar handwriting on the envelope, and drew his breath hard for the effort before he tore it open.
There were several pages, some of them crossed. He retired to the strangers'-room, and sat down to peruse the death-warrant of his happiness.
"You will forgive me," it began, "because you are the kindest, the best, the most generous of men; but I should never forgive myself the blow I feel I am now inflicting, were it not that I regard your pride, your character, your high sense of honour, before your happiness. General, I am unfit to be your wife; not because my antecedents are somewhat obscure—youknow my history, and that I have no reason to be ashamed of it; not because I undervalue the happiness of so high and enviable a lot—any woman, as I have told you more than once, would be proud of your choice; but because you deserve, and could so well appreciate, the unalloyed affection, the utter devotion, that are not mine to give.Yourwife should have no thought but for you, no hopes independent of you, no memories in which you do not form a part. She should be wrapped up in your existence, identified with you, body and soul. All this I amnot. I never have been—I never can be now. Had I entertained a lower opinion of your merits, admired andcared foryou less, I would have kept my promise faithfully, and we might have jogged on like many another couple, comfortably enough. Butyouought to win more than merecomfortin married life. You merit, and would expect,happiness. How could I bear to see my hero disappointed? For you are my hero—mybeau-idéalof a gentleman—and my standard is a very high one, or you and I had never been so unhappy as I firmly believe we both are at this moment. It is in vain to regret, and murmur, and speculate on what might have been, if everything, including one's own identity, were different. There is but one line to take now, even at the eleventh hour. Some day you will acknowledge that I was right. We must never meet again. I have taken such precautions as can baffle, I do believe, even your energy and resource. You have often said nobody was so determined when I had made up my mind. I am resolved that you shall never find out what has become of me; and I entreat you—I adjure you—if you love me—nay, as you love me—not to try! So now, farewell—a long farewell, that it pains me sore to say. I shall never forget you. In all my conflict of feelings, in all my self-reproach and bitter sorrow, when I think of your pain, I cannot bring myself to wish we had never met. I am proud of your notice and your regard—proud to remain under obligations to you—proud to have loved you so far as my false, wicked nature had the power. Even now I can say, though you put me out of your heart, do not let me pass entirely from your memory. Think sometimes, and not unkindly, of your wilful, wayward—
"Blanche."
So it was all over.
"It's a good letter," murmured the General; "but I prefer the one Julia wrote to Juan." Then he read it through again, and found, as is usually the case, that the second perusal reversed his impression of the first. Did shereallymean he was to abstain from all attempt to follow her? He examined the envelope; it bore the stamp of the General Post Office; the contents certainly afforded him no clue, yet, judging by analogy, he argued that no woman would lay such stress on the precautions she had taken if she did not wish their efficacy to be proved. When he found, however, that nothing short of police-detectives and newspaper advertisements would avail him, he took a juster view of her intentions, and in the chivalry of his nature resolved that under this great affliction, as in every other condition of their acquaintance, he would yield implicitly to her wish.
So he went back into the world, grave, kindly, and courteous as before. There were a few more grey hairs in his whiskers, and he avoided ladies' society altogether; otherwise, to the unobservant eye, he was little altered; but a dear old friend whom he had nursed through cholera at Varna, and dragged from under a dead horse at Lucknow, took him into a bay-window of the club-library, and thus addressed him—
"My good fellow, you're looking shamefully seedy. Idleness never suited you. Nothing like work to keep old horses sound. Why don't you apply for employment? There's always something to do in the East."
CHAPTER XXVIII
"SEEKING REST AND FINDING NONE"
But great nations do not plunge recklessly into war, nor even do mountain tribes rise suddenly in rebellion because an elderly gentleman is suffering like some sentimental school-girl from a disappointment of the heart. General St. Josephs extorted, indeed, from a great personage the promise that if anything turned up he would not be forgotten, and was fain to content himself, for the time, with a pledge in which he knew he could place implicit trust. So the weary, hot months dragged on, and he remained in London, solitary, silent, preoccupied, wandering about the scenes of his former happiness, like a ghost. He went yachting, indeed, with one friend, and agreed on a pedestrian excursion through Switzerland with another; but the "sad sea waves" were too sad for him to endure, and the energy that should have taken him over a mountain, or up a glacier, seemed to fail with the purchase of a knapsack and the perusal of a foreign Bradshaw, so the walking tour was abandoned, and the friend rather congratulated himself on escaping such a mournful companion.